A little shopping being in order, Evan took himself off in the morning,
leaving Miss Lavinia and me to prowl, after we had promised to meet him
at a downtown restaurant at one.

Little boys are delightful things to shop for,--there is no matching this
and that, no getting a yard too much or too little, everything is
substantial and straight away, and all you have to do when the bundles
are sent home by express is to strengthen the sewing on of buttons and
reinforce the seats and knees of everyday pantikins from the inside.

We strolled about slowly, and at half past one were quite ready to sit
still and not only eat our lunch but watch business mankind eat his. If
any one wishes to feel the clutch and motive power of the Whirlpool let
him go to the Mazarin any time between twelve-thirty and two o'clock. The
streets themselves are surging with men, all hurrying first in one
direction, then another, until it seems as if there either must be a fire
somewhere, or else a riot afoot. The doors of the restaurant open and
shut incessantly, corks pop, knives and forks rattle, everything is being
served from a sandwich and a glass of beer to an elaborate repast with a
wine to every course, while through and above it all the stress of
business is felt. Of course the great financiers usually have luncheon
served in their offices, to save them from the crowd; besides, it might
give common humanity a chance to scrutinize their countenances, and
perchance read what they thought upon some question of moment, for it
sometimes seems as if the eye of the New York journalist has X-ray power.
On the other hand, the humbler grade, with less of either time or money
to spare, go to the "quick lunch" counters and "dime-in-the-slot"
sandwich concerns; yet Evan says that the gathering at the Mazarin is
fairly representative.